Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (40 page)

Then came out that magnificent weight-carrying hunter, “Pull Devil Pull Baker,” with his great arms, magnificent shoulders, and lean handsome head,—looking like a perfect Placid Joe, both in mind and manners.

“Ah, that's something like a horse!” exclaimed Mr Hazey, his cold eyes sparkling with animation as he surveyed him. “That's something like a horse. Three 'undred guineas' worth I guess.”

“
Four
,” replied Facey, confidentially; “leastways, two two's. Oi've a patent way,” continued he, “of concealing my extravagancies, by giving two cheques for one horse: one on my London banker, and the other on my country one, so that neither of them know the extent of my gullibility.”

“Well, but if you want to sell,” suggested Mr Hazey.

“Oh, then the horse speaks for himself,” replied Mr Romford. “It doesn't follow because oi give too much that another man must do the same. One always expects to lose by a horse.”

So saying, Mr Romford then approached and mounted the Baker, sitting in the ostentatious sort of way of a man who is conscious that he is cocked on the top of a “good 'un.”

“What do you call him?” asked Miss Anna Maria, who had now joined the group.

“Placid Joe,” replied Romford, patting him on the neck, well knowing it wouldn't do to call him by his right one.

“Ah, he looks very good-tempered,” observed the lady.

All things being at length ready for a start, the loose-box door was opened, out came the hounds with a cry, when, with mutual adieus, away the cavalcade proceeded to find their way across country to Beldon Hall.

And Mr Hazey having watched Leotard's action over the cobblestones, to which he could take no exception whatever, and having seen the last loitering hound disappear, after a few moments lost in deep meditation, turned round to his wife saying, “Well, now, that's as rum a go as ever I saw in my life.”

“How, my dear?” asked Mrs Hazey, now duly impressed with the £2,000-a-year story.

“Well, the get-up, the turn-out, the whole thing,” replied Mr Hazey.

“Well, but it's only a chance visit, my dear,” observed Mrs Hazey.

“True,” said Hazey, “true; but still he's a rum 'un anyhow.”

“There's a good deal of character about him, certainly,” assented his wife.

“I like his horses better than I do himself,” observed Mr Hazey, after a pause. “But I do wonder that a man who can have such fine horses should not have a pair of better boots.”

“Not particular about appearances, perhaps?” suggested Mrs Hazey.

“That's a nice nag, that cream-colour,” observed Bill, now joining his beloved parents.

“Ah, we must keep an eye on him,” said his father. “Shouldn't wonder if there might be a penny turned by that horse. What was it Romford said about him—that he didn't go freely at his fences, or something?”

“I think it was something of that sort,” replied his wife, who did not take much interest in equestrian matters.

“Oh, I should say he was rather a nice fencer,” observed Bill.

“How do you know?” asked his father.

“I tried him—tried him when you were all in at breakfast.”

“Clever lad!” exclaimed Hazey, patting him on the back. “Clever lad! Never miss a chance, that's a good fellow—always keep your weather eye open, my boy;” so saying, the trio proceeded leisurely back to the house.

And as talks-over are always mutual, Mr Romford and Lucy had the Hazeys on the
tapis
as soon as the breadth of the Herdlaw road enabled the hounds to get away from among their horses' feet.

“Well, and what did you make of Mother What's-her-name ?“ asked Mr Romford, with a backward jerk of his head to indicate who he meant.

“Oh, well, she was very affable,” replied Lucy.

“Well, but did you gammon her well?” asked Romford, meaning about himself.

“Oh, beautifully! Told her I had two thousand a year jointure, and I don't know what else.”

“Oh, the deuce!” exclaimed Romford, “but you shouldn't have done that.”

“Why not?” asked Lucy.

“Why not!” repeated Romford, “why, because you'll have every unmarried man in the country after you.”

“Well, but I told her I lost a thousand a year if I married again.”

“Oh, that won't stop them,” retorted Facey—“that won't stop them. Bless your heart, a thousand a year will draw men from all the corners of the earth. You should have said you lost it all, and then they would have abused Somerville, and it would have saved our door-bell. “They'll eat us out of house and home,” added he, thinking of the dreadful consequences of the invasion,—the disappearance of his cold meat, his cold game, his cold pie; nay, he wouldn't answer for his Saturday's resurrection puddings, consisting of all the odds and ends of the week, being safe from the intrusion of the suitors.

Mr Romford didn't like it. No good could come of it, for she couldn't marry with old Soapey alive, and to have his house besieged by all the idle fortune-hunters of the country was more than he could endure. And he jogged on silently in a very mystified contemplative mood, with an occasional pull of his beard, thinking he would have to rake and watch the gravel ring very attentively. But in his inmost thoughts came the conviction that Miss Hazey was much prettier than Miss Watkins, and, though it was very imprudent even thinking of her, his thoughts would run that way.

G
REAT AS WAS
M
R
R
OMFORD'S
general success in Doubleimupshire, both as a sportsman and a
protégé
of Lord Lovetin, in no part, perhaps, was it more signal than at Tarring Neville, where they looked upon him as a most desirable acquaintance, showing, at all events, that two of a trade do not always disagree. To be sure, Mr Hazey thought that a man who was simple enough to keep foxhounds for a benevolent object—namely, founding an hospital for decayed sportsmen—might very likely be easily victimised in the matter of a horse; while Mrs Hazey thought the owner of Abbeyfield Park, J.P., D.L., patron of three livings, would be an extremely eligible
partie
for her daughter. Not that she was mercenary; only she liked to see affluence. Love in a cottage found no favour with her. Love in a castle was a far better thing.

With feelings such as these, it was easily settled that the unexpected morning visit caused by the bag fox should stand in the place of a regular call; a return, in fact, of the pilgrimage that Hazey and the boy Bill made to Beldon Hall on the Sunday. That settled, and the larder and meets of the respective hounds being consulted, then came the question who they should ask,—whether Mr Romford and his sister, or Mr Romford alone Mrs and Miss Hazey thinking they would do as well without Mrs Somerville; Mr Hazey, on his part, contending that they would have no chance of getting Mr Romford without Mrs Somerville. Mr Hazey was sure Mr Romford wouldn't come alone. Didn't look at all like a man to dress up after hunting, to turn out again in the cold, to trail across country in the dead of winter for a dinner. He would be too careful of his carriage-horses for that. Mrs Hazey combated the objection by saying they could ask him to stay all night, and made some deprecatory remarks about the trouble of having women and their maids; adding, that Mrs Somerville would, most likely, have some fine costly sensitive creature, who would be far more difficult to please than her mistress. But Mr Hazey adhered to his opinion, that if they wanted Mr Romford, they must ask Mrs Somerville also; and dreading the “I told you so,” if they failed in securing Mr Romford, they were obliged to accede, and invite Mrs Somerville as well.

So it was settled that both should be asked, Mrs Somerville by the ladies, and Mr Romford by the gentleman; and as the cards for the next week's meets of the hounds were just about to be issued, a lawn meet was made for Tarring Neville on Mr Romford's non-hunting day. Then Anna Maria proceeded to draw up an elaborate but apparently off-hand document, in the familiar strain, on behalf of mamma, inviting her dear Mrs Somerville to give them the pleasure of her company on Wednesday, and stay till Friday. And after several alterations of phrase, and careful guarding against Mrs Somerville coming alone, she got the draft to her and mamma's liking; and, drawing out a sheet of superfine cream-laid note-paper (slightly scented), proceeded, with the aid of a new pen, to copy it in her best hand writing for sending. The new pen, like most new pens, didn't go freely at first; it was like a newly-shod horse wanting to find its feet, and the first note was condemned at the third line. The second was found no better, for she put two
n
's into Wednesday; and in the third attempt the tiresome pen made a trip and a splutter at the word pleasure, and she couldn't think of sending that either. The fourth, however, she got to her mind, and presented to her mamma for approval. Thus it ran:—

And Hazey, albeit of the cozening order, was rather puzzled how to address our friend Mr Romford, whether as “Dear Romford,” “Dear Mr Romford,” “Dear Sir,” or how. “Dear Romford” would have done well enough to a three-days-a-week master, with a subscription; but here was a four-days-a-week one, with an occasional bye, who was going to devote his subscription to a charitable purpose. Then, if Hazey was to “sir,” “dear sir,” or “my dear sir” him, Mr Romford might think it rather stiff; and, altogether, Hazey thought the best plan was to take the middle course, and “Mr” him,—address him as “Dear Mr Romford.” So our Master, having made up his mind on that point, echoed his daughter's letter without the flummery; adding, that he had a stall for Mr Romford's horse, and thought he could promise him a good fox. And Mr Hazey sealed it with a fine butter-pat-like coat of arms seal of many quarterings, many stags, many rings, many falcons, the whole surmounted by his crest of a lion with a kitchen-poker-like tail. Then the letters went to the post, and expectation presently stood on tip-toe, speculating whether they would come or not; Mrs Hazey saying they would, Mr Hazey taking the other side, and the boy Bill going halves with his father in a sixpenny bet on the event.

Facey was at the kennel when the letters came; but Lucy saw by the post-mark that they were from the same quarter, and anticipated the contents of her brother's by her own. She was all for going, all for taking Leotard, all for making hay while the sun shone. But knowing that Facey would require a little coaxing, she didn't meet him open-mouthed with his letter, lest Chowey, or Swig, or some of the queer ones might have gone wrong at the kennel, but kept it quietly in her work-box, till, having made a hearty dinner off hot beef pudding and Edinburgh ale, he had got half through a pipe and a whole glass of gin in his smoking-chair, before she began.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed she, as if she had quite forgotten it until that moment, “I've a letter for you,” rising, and pretending to bustle for it in her work-box.

“Letter
(puff)
for me”
(puff),
growled Facey. “Who can it be from?” taking the pipe from his mouth. Facey didn't like letters; he thought they might be disagreeable ones.

“Well, I think it's from Mr—Mr—what do they call him? Hard and Sharp, you know?”

“Oh, Hazey,” said Romford, comforted by the sound, and turning half round in his chair to replenish his glass.

“Yes, Hazey,” replied Lucy, producing the letter, and giving it to him.

“Read it,” said Romford, handing it back to her.

Lucy broke the seal and did as desired; while Facey resumed his beloved pipe.

“See him first,” said Facey, when she was done reading.

“Oh dear, but I should like to go!” exclaimed Lucy.

“But you're not axed,” replied Facey, with a knowing leer of his little pig-eye

“Yes, I am,” rejoined Lucy, producing her card.

“Humph!” mused Facey, after a pause. “Don't think that'll pay!”

“Why not?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, bother of getting there—costs I don't know how much! Can hunt here, eat here, drink here,—do everything here that they propose doing there.”

“Oh, but consider the society,” observed Mrs Sidney Benson, interposing in her daughter's behalf.

“Fiddle the society,” said Romford; “oi can't make anything of the sort out of it.”

The fact was, Facey had thought the Anna-Maria project over, and saw the imprudence of the idea. Dalberry Lees was clearly the place for his money.

Still Lucy returned to the charge. She wanted to go and air some of her fine clothes; and if the money was the only obstacle, she thought she could get over that.

“Might ride our own horses over, and send Dirty with our things by the Oldbury coach,” observed she.

“Ay, but it's about as much as oi can manish to mount myself with my own hounds,” observed Facey, “without goin' to see other folks. Besides, Swig lamed Oliver Twist the last day we were out, and Bounding Ben and the grey are both coughing.”

“Well, but you might ask H. to mount you,” continued Lucy; adding, “I dare say he'd be most happy to do so.”

“Not quite so sure of that,” said Facey, looking down at his big legs; “rather above the mounting size, you see.”